


loose like dogs

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Ageplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:08:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Most days he's still Patrick Stump, three years from thirty and loving every second of it. And then there's days where he breaks out the red hoodies or the red sneakers or the red shirts and huddles in, awkward and young all over again, a teenager trapped inside an adult. Today. Today's that kind of day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loose like dogs

He doesn't go out alone anymore.

Patrick slips on his shoes, the backs of the sneakers already broken so far in that he has to dig at them to get them on right. The bus is freezing, the air conditioner turned up almost too high to be comfortable. He's got maybe an hour to get something to eat before he has to be in the venue, stomach tight. He's been sleeping all day, too hyped the night before to rest, and the grogginess is finally catching up with him. 

There's a knock on the door, barely there at all, but Patrick shoots up to it, jerking it open quick enough to startle himself. On the other side, Michael shifts awkwardly on his heels, already in his show shirt and slacks. He smiles, still awkward around the edges as Patrick edges around him. For a second, they're pressed front to front in the cramped hall and Patrick feels himself go hot, hurries to get past the techs and to the doors. 

"Patrick, hang on." Michael catches up to him easily, reaching for his arm before Patrick can dart out of the bus. He straightens Patrick's collar, the red flashing at the edges of Patrick's eyeline, hand resting on Patrick's shoulder when he's done. "Ready?"

Patrick nods, hair itching against his forehead. The bleach stains on his fingers have been gone for days, but when he looks in the mirror in the mornings, he can still feel the way it made his skin tight, the way he'd felt when he looked up and saw the age draining away from him like a bad joke. Most days he's still Patrick Stump, three years from thirty and loving every second of it. 

And then there's days where he breaks out the red hoodies or the red sneakers or the red shirts and huddles in, awkward and young all over again, a teenager trapped inside an adult. Today. Today's that kind of day.

Patrick steps down first, but Michael's not far behind him. They keep close when Patrick's having one of these days, careful and easy in a way Patrick can't be when he's an adult. He trails a half step behind Michael, scuffing his sneakers against the gravel as they wander the city. He's been in it a few times with Fall Out Boy, but alone it feels brand new. 

They wander the town for a while, unhurried. Michael drags him into a sandwich shop and plunks him down into a booth, wandering away to order once he's sure Patrick's not going anywhere. The napkin dispenser has rust on it, small but creeping along the bottom side. Patrick picks at it with his thumb, squirrely and squirmy, too loose in his skin. He's got a lot of wiggle room that he's not sure what to do with.

"I know you don't drink pop, but-" Michael sets a glass in front of him, the condensation sticking to his hand as he lets it go. Inside the glass, bubbles hiss and spit, the sound almost audible when Patrick leans in over the table. Michael's gone when he looks up, already back at the counter to wait for their dinner. 

The soda tastes sweet and cold, the carbonation on his tongue enough to make him grin a little into his glass. It's a stupid thing to be happy about, but no one's looking. 

When Michael comes back, he slides into the booth across from him, tray bumping against the tabletop. They eat quietly, Patrick picking the ham out of his sandwich, bread untouched on the tray. His stomach doesn't really feel any better, the pre-tour jitters up under his nails and in his throat. Under the table, Michael lets him kick their feet together, the soft tips of his new shoes bending against Patrick's sneaker. 

"Eat all of it," Michael says when it's obvious that Patrick's just wasting time.

"'m not that hungry," Patrick mumbles. He frowns when Michael stops letting him play footsie, leaning in over the table instead to trade out Patrick's bread for half of his own sandwich.

"You'll get sick," Michael says. He looks so genuinely concerned, eyebrows tucked in and mouth turned down at the corners. Patrick takes a bite from the half and Michael smiles.

Whatever. This one tastes better anyway.

When it's all gone, Michael clears out the trash and helps Patrick out of the booth, hand giant against Patrick's. Patrick looks down at his fingers and blushes. His body keeps doing funny things when he's like this, in ways it never has before. Today's a thirteen day; younger than he usually is, but somehow kind of fitting.

They keep bumping into each other in the walk back, too close but unwilling to move apart. Patrick hates that he can't reach down and hold Micheal's hand. Maybe next time he'll brave enough it and there'll be a better place for it. Maybe.

"You want help with your tie?" Michael asks when they get into the venue. If Patrick says yes, he'll get to run around for a bit before the show, burn off some energy. If he says no, he'll have to go into the back and talk himself out of.being a kid.

"Please," he finally says. 

Michael waits outside while Patrick switches out of his jeans and into his stage clothes. The jacket is kind of snug on his shoulders, the shirt maybe too tight around his middle. Patrick tucks in his shirt tails and reaches for a tie, kicking the door on his way past to let Michael know it's okay to come inside. 

The sandwich sits like lead in his belly. Patrick hates kick offs in a pretty vicious way. Logically, he knows that once he gets his inertia he'll be fine, but inside he's twisting like a canyon. Michael catches him on a trip across the room and stops him with one hand. He's so quiet, always so quiet, but it's soothing in a way that Pete's loudness used to be. Familiar places to keep him grounded.

"Chin up," Michael says, tugging the tie loose from Patrick's hand. 

He has to slouch a bit, and all Patrick can see of him is the line of his throat as he loops the tie around Patrick's neck. Patrick watches the curve of Michael's Adam's apple, bites his lip as he feels the careful motions of Michael's hands. He's used to ties and used to doing them up quick and impeccable, proud of the way he looks when they're on, but Michael takes his time, makes the knot with slow, easy movements. 

His knuckles brush up under Patrick's chin, cool even though the back room is kind of hot. Patrick swallows and tries to stay still. His heart feels like it's going to burst right out of his chest. It's dumb, but he really just wants to let Michael help him out of his suit and curl up on the ugly couch. He's good at his job. He knows he is.

Doesn't change the fact that it's kind of scary.

"This good?" Michael asks, tightening the knot. It's a little looser than Patrick usually wears it, but he's not going to tighten it out of principle alone. 

"Yeah." He fidgets under Michael's hands, rocking up on his toes suddenly to press a quick kiss to Michael's cheek before darting off, on the mission to find his shoes.

They have rules about this. Patrick pulls on his red and he's not an adult anymore, even if his bio body still says he is. And Michael, he treats Patrick more or less the same, but the first time Patrick had tried to kiss him, he'd pushed him away gently and said no. Said that Patrick at sixteen or thirteen or anywhere in between was too young for that, that they'd do whatever he wanted when he was an adult again.

Sometimes, Patrick thinks, he just needs someone to tell him no.

There isn't really enough room for him to run around in the back, but Michael pulls out an accoustic guitar and hums along, soft under the sound already coming from the stage. It's a nice tradeoff. Patrick paces the room anxiously, warms up with fold songs. Michael sings along with him, doesn’t chastise Patrick for fidgeting.

When stage call is announced, Michael sets his guitar down carefully. He squeezes Patrick’s shoulder as he walks by, smiling crookedly. Patrick’s got something like ten minutes to get back to himself. He hasn’t tried performing when he’s younger, but the first run of shows is probably a bad time to try.

There isn’t really a trick to it. Patrick shakes himself off, breathes in deep. He feels some of the insecurity melt off, feels himself fill his skin back up. It hasn’t really worn all the way off when his cue hits, but he’s back enough to himself that he doesn’t hesitate to run onto the stage.

This is his crowd. These people will either love him or hate him, but it’s way too late to back out now. He snatches his cornet off the drum riser and joins in with the band. He feels at home again, back on the stage where he belongs. He can barely see the crowd, but he can feel their energy bouncing up to meet him. He can hear Michael in his ear piece announcing him to the crowd. They cheer, a wall of sound that blocks out the band. Patrick’s heart beats faster as he steps up to his mic. 

“Hi,” he says, breathless. Under the lights everything is a blur. “I’m Patrick.”

\---

Patrick trips up into the bus, sleepy and sweaty, face tired from smiling at fans. His head is pounding even as the satisfied feeling of a show well played settles into his chest. Michael's right behind him, hand a steady pressure on the small of his back. He tries to crawl straight into his bunk, but Michael hauls him back up and leans him against the wall.

"Come on," Michael says softly. "Stand up."

Patrick ragdolls himself as Michael unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders, as he undoes his belt. He grunts softly but lifts his feet up one after the other when he's told to, his slacks crumpling to the floor at his feet.

"Want a new shirt?" Michael asks, fingers already working their way under the one Patrick's been wearing all night. Patrick shakes his head. He just wants to go to sleep. He nearly topples over when Michael pulls his damp shirt off.

His bunk feels like heaven, stiff and sterile but horizontal. He's awake long enough to feel Michael pull up his covers, enough to feel the soft kiss to his forehead, but everything after falls off into black. 

In the morning, Patrick wakes up a little sore, skin aching from where his sheets had been bunched up under him. The bus is quiet, rumbling under them steadily as they head to the next state. He slips out of his bunk and into Michael's, a barely there movement to get across the narrow hall between them.

One of Michael's legs are hanging out, foot resting on the floor. He’s too tall for it, but there’s nowhere else to put him. The curtain doesn't totally close, but it's not like Patrick's really trying to hide. He's surrounded himself with good people. If they don't already know about him and Michael, they won’t care when they find out.

Patrick slides his hands under Michael's sleep shirt, rucks it up to see the slender line of his stomach. He doesn't know what time it is, can't really see his watch in the darkness, but if they're still moving it can't be terribly late. He's got time. When he tosses a leg over Michael's hip, Michael stirs, eyes sleepily blinking open. 

"Morning," Michael mumbles, fingers curling loosely around Patrick's wrist. There isn't really enough room for two, but Patrick squeezes himself down, presses a kiss to Michael's jaw. 

"Hey," he says, lips scraping against Michael's stubble. He feels Michael's fingers sliding up his back, remembers that he'd never put on a shirt the night before. 

"You good?" Michael asks. His hair is standing on end, the gel from the night before gone. There's faint lines across his red cheeks from his pillow. It makes him look incredibly young. 

"Yeah. For a while." Patrick fits himself down, tries not to put all his weight on Michael's chest. He misses beds and couches and his apartment briefly. Fingers trace over his shoulder blades, up into his hair, scritching at it like he's a cat. Moments like these, when it's just them and the sound of the road, Patrick feels settled down. Complacent and comfortable. 

Patrick kisses him, slides his lips over Michael's slow and soft. He's not totally out of it, the last of the nerves still clinging to him even though he's done this a dozen times before. He laughs when Michael tips him over, back scraping against the wall. The tech above him makes a soft sound in his sleep. Patrick bites his lip to keep quiet.

It takes a lot of finagling to get comfortable again, Patrick too wide and Michael too tall, legs and arms tangling up. The air bouncing around in the bunk is getting hot, a little stale. It feels more comfortable with Michael over him, easier to go along with. He shoves up onto his elbows, laughs again when their mouths bump ungracefully. Patrick groans as Michael bites gently at his mouth, finds himself on his back again looking up. 

Michael hovers over him, back nearly touching the bunk above him. He smiles awkwardly, head ducking down. They haven't done much outside of this, shy and sweet and not really familiar at all. (Patrick can remember being shoved up against walls and the sides of vans, can remember doing some shoving back. He'd been angry as a kid, angrier as an adult, and Pete had let him be as vicious as he wanted.) When Michael drops his hips, Patrick bites his lip. God, he needs this.

It's unhurried, slow movements of their hips in time to the rocking of the bus on the road. Patrick curls around him awkwardly, tries to crawl up into him. There’s something like a thank you in the way Patrick kisses Michael’s cheek. He’ll never say it out loud, but he’ll never have to. 

Michael presses his face into the curve of Patrick's neck, his soft breaths making Patrick shiver. The bus shudders to a halt and Patrick thrusts up against him, swallows down the moan rising up in his throat. The rest of the bus is waking up around them, the sounds of morning starting. Heat crawls up into his belly. He feels like a teenager rutting up against Michael in slow, uneven jerks of his hips. Everywhere they're touching is too hot, the cotton of Michael's shirt abrasive against Patrick's skin.

"I'm-" Michael's mouth flattens against the curve of Patrick's shoulder, the slick outline of teeth and lips and tongue like an engraving. Patrick feels the dampness against his stomach, the sticky fabric of Michael's boxers rubbing against him, and he has to close his eyes, has to not let himself be there because he hates being watched.

Something out in the lounge falls to the floor. Patrick squeezes his eyes closed tighter and tries to be silent. He's grateful when Michael's mouth seals over his own, when Michael's hand reaches down and presses down against him through his underwear. It's embarrassing to come from so little sensation, but the relief that rushes through him is tangible. 

Michael lowers himself down carefully, arms shaking next to Patrick's head. It's too hot, but Patrick's not quite ready to give up the privacy of the bunk. He wraps an arm around Michael's waist and hangs on. 

"Breakfast?" Matt calls from the front. His timing is too good to be coincidental. Patrick can't stop the laugh that bubbles up out of him. Michael's head thunks down against his shoulder, and the moment's gone. 

"Please," Patrick shouts back. 

They wait until they hear the door open and close before rolling out of the bunk ungracefully, tangled up in each other. It's a quick change of clothes between kisses and a running commentary on the show before Matt tosses a McDonald's bag in at them like a grenade. He laughs obnoxiously and tells them that the crew's taking a run. 

"So you're welcome for round two," he says brightly. Patrick's pretty sure he's going to explode from all the blood rushing up to his face. At least Michael's in the same boat, he thinks as he catches a glance at his bright cheeks.

\---

Patrick isn't wearing red, but Michael takes him out to a movie anyway.

They're in middle America, stalled out for a night to recharge. It's nice not being recognized. He slips on his bug eyed sunglasses and yanks on a gray tshirt and hangs back as Michael calls a taxi. He hasn't been on a date in a long time.

"What do you want to see?" Michael asks as they pile into the backseat. Patrick shrugs. 

"Something old."

The driver drops them off at a tiny dollar theatre just outside of town. It's mostly empty, but a few teenagers are loitering inside, bored and clumped together in the corners of the lobby. Above the single ticket stand, a flyer for an all day Friday the Thirteenth marathon hangs loosely.

The girl behind the stand does a double take when Michael buys their tickets, trying to look at Patrick underneath her bangs. She waits until they're past to ask quietly, "are you Patrick Stump?"

"Nah," Patrick says, leaning in against Michael's side. "Common mistake. It's okay."

"Sorry," the girl says. She turns away, but Patrick can still see how red her face is. 

Patrick feels kind of bad lying. Michael smiles down at him and reaches for his hand, cool fingers sliding into the spaces between Patrick's. It's nice to be on the backburner, Patrick thinks. Everyone else can keep the spotlight.

The theater has a grand total of eight other people inside spread out across the seats. Patrick leads them to center row, shuffling in to the middle. Patrick stuffs his glasses into the pocket of his Polo and plops down into a chair. The squeak it makes is a little daunting.

The first film starts up and the small crowd cheers. They get halfway through before Patrick feels Michael shift, feels his arm go around the back of his seat. He grins and wishes vaguely that they'd gotten popcorn. Sometimes, being an adult is almost as good as being a kid.

There isn't an interlude. The credits for the first film cut off in the middle, replaced with the opening title of the second film. Patrick's more diagonal than vertical, head on the space above Michael's heart. He can hear it speed up every time something pops out on the screen.

When he tilts his head up to see Michael's face, he's surprised to find him watching. They both grin sheepishly at getting caught, the screams on the surround sound just background noise. It seems natural to lean up and kiss him. So, Patrick does. 

He feels like he's getting away with something when he bites down gently on Michael's lower lip. The hand on his shoulder squeezes, Michael's arm falling to rest behind his neck instead of over the seat. None of it's really all that comfortable, but Patrick can't bring himself to move.

It's like everything's slowed down. Patrick watches the movies and cringes through them, laughing when he feels Michael jump under him. His phone buzzes in his pocket halfway through the third and final film. The bus driver, probably, wondering where they are. Patrick steadfastly ignores it.

"I think," Michael says when they leave, pausing to think. "That I actually want to go camping now."

Patrick laughs until his stomach hurts and his chest aches. He doesn't realize they're still holding on to each other until they're letting go to get into a cab. In the back of his mind, he thinks of laying out under the stars and wishes for home.

This life, he thinks later when he’s crawling into his bunk, is pretty good. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. Across from him, Michael hums. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he says. He tosses a red skull cap into Patrick’s bunk. Patrick hunches into himself but pulls it on anyway.

“You don’t think this is... weird?”

“No,” Michael says. Patrick presses his face into his pillow. _No_. It feels pretty good to hear it. “Go to sleep, Patrick.” 

Patrick tugs the brim of his hat down and his covers up. Things are looking great from here.


End file.
